Louisa and the Country Bachelor : A Louisa May Alcott Mystery (9781101547564) (23 page)

“Well,” he said calmly. “I see you have found some trouble.” Transcendentalists, I have observed, tend to be fond of understatement.

“Trouble,” repeated Llew stiffly. He lifted his right hand, and in that hand was a walking stick dripping with blood and gore.

Ida shrieked, and this time her faint was complete. She lost consciousness.

I realized, at that moment, that I had been purposely misled by some evil greater than a young man's vanity and stormy pride. The evil had been there, close to me, and I had not identified it. I had let my desire to know human nature be misused by false starts and leads. My search to discover the whereabouts of Jonah Tupper had blinded me to the fact that another young man was in great danger. And now he was dead.

With a great sense of failure mixing with my horror, I went to Llew and closed the parlor door behind him. But my sisters, who had been sitting in the garden, had heard Ida's scream and gathered now in the doorway, pale and frightened.

Abba hastily took May and Lizzie by the hand and rushed them upstairs to their rooms. “Anna, sit with them and read,” she ordered my older sister. “Do not let them come back down the stairs.” Anna left, her eyes wide with terror.

Abba, that true and wonderful woman, had already recovered from the first shock and was ready now to begin to repair this situation. Trouble, for Abba—whether it be a fallen cake, an unwed girl cast out from her home, or a new widow with six children to feed—was to be cleaned up, in much the same manner that smudges are wiped from windows and mud removed from carpets. It is part of the process of restoring the world to righteousness.

“Bronson,” she said, “go and fetch an officer of the law. Some abomination has been done in our home.” Her voice already carried absolute conviction that Llew had been victimized by the situation, and was not the cause of it. She never once doubted his innocence.

“I will do just that.” And Father took his cane and hat from the hall coat stand and, to hearten Llew as he passed, he gave him a gentle shaking of the shoulders and called him “My boy.” Llew did not respond, but only looked down at his bloodied hands.

“Sylvia.” Abba turned to my companion. “Fetch Dr. Burroughs for Mrs. Tupper.” Without a word, Sylvia was out the door and running down the sidewalk after Father.

Abba then suggested I take Llew into the kitchen, while she saw to Mrs. Tupper.

“Now, Llew, sit,” I said when we were alone. I wiped his hands and face with a towel. He was as passive as a child, and once the blood was removed his face was deadly white.

“Tell me what happened, Llew,” I coached.

“It was horrible,” he said, his eyes wide. “I pulled open the door and went in, past the doorway and the rotted step. I tripped on something. I tried to get up, but it was soft and slippery. I could not get my footing. It was when my hand touched another that I realized I had fallen over a body. A body!”

Llew started to shiver so forcefully I feared he would fall from his chair. I took the decanter of sherry from the cupboard and poured all that was left from yesterday's festivities into a glass. Last night Clarence had gone on an errand to that cellar and never returned. Had the body been there for almost a day already? The dampness would have kept the pooling blood from drying, making the floor slippery.

“Drink, Llew,” I said. “You look so pale you may lose consciousness.”

“Never!” said Llew, flailing with his arms the way some people do just before they fall into a dead faint, as if they are besieged by a plague of flies.

He finished the sherry with difficulty. There was blood caked under his nails, and I scraped at it. I had seen other men look that bloodied, in country autumns when hogs are slaughtered. Poor Clarence Hampton.

After Llew was somewhat restored and had discarded his stained jacket into the sink, where I would later try to remove the rusty stains already drying on the tweeded flannel fabric, we returned to the parlor. Dr. Burroughs was there by then, and he was half lifting, half carrying Ida Tupper, with Sylvia's assistance.

“Miss Louisa,” he said, smiling at me through his thick white whiskers. “Your guest has taken quite ill. We must see her home to her own bed.”

Abba gave me a warning glance. She had not told him about the body in the cellar. That was the sheriff 's business; it was too late for the doctor.

“May I assist?” I asked.

“No, no, your friend and I will see to it.” Ida moaned, and when Sylvia waved the salts under her nose she flailed and shrieked once again.

“Her brother is an invalid and unable to care for her,” I told Dr. Burroughs. “Will you stay with her till she is sleeping? Then you might come back here. There is another matter that will want your attention.”

His expression grew stern. “I will return,” he promised, walking slightly bowed under the weight of Ida Tupper's arm around his shoulders.

Abba scrubbed at a red spot on the floor. Her face was thoughtful and worried, and now that she had gotten us through the first moments of the nightmare, she seemed at a loss.

“I must go into the cellar,” I said.

“No!” said Abba and Llew simultaneously.

“But if the murderer—”

“Returns? All the more reason for you not to go alone into that place,” Abba insisted. She was right, of course. So we waited, and fifteen minutes later Father reappeared with Sheriff Bowman.

The tall, gangly Walpolian man had thrown on his coat and trousers over his nightshirt, some of which still stuck out the sides, and he wore a tall beaver hat over his uncombed black hair. He must have had a late evening and slept in, for it was near noon by then.

“I understand you have found a body,” he said after giving Abba a brief nod of greeting and removing his absurd hat.

Llew looked up. Oh, his expression was horrible.

“I found it.” Llew could barely speak.

Mr. Bowman studied him for a moment. The man looked comedic, but I could see by the sharpness of his gaze that he was no fool.

“Well, we'd better go see this body, hadn't we? Can you walk, boy?”

Llew rose to his feet and cast down the blankets with which we had wrapped him. Mr. Bowman saw then the dark stains on his cuffs and knees.

“Probably a dead raccoon,” said Bowman, frowning. “They are fierce fighters over territory.”

“It is no raccoon,” said Llew darkly.

“I will come with you,” I said.

“No, Miss Louisa, you will not,” said Officer Bowman. “Stay in the house with the women.”

I took a deep breath to protest, but Abba gave me a nudge. I knew what she was thinking, and she was right: The more I protested, the longer it would take to complete the process now begun, the hideous process of identifying the dead.

The men—Llew, Father, and Officer Bowman—took Abba's lamp and went back out the door. From inside the parlor, where I opened the window, we could hear their steps crunching on the dirt-and-gravel path, hear the creaking of rusted hinges as the cellar door was opened. There was a moment of silence, and then I heard Officer Bowman say, “Mother Mary and all the saints. It's Clarence Hampton. At least I think it's Clarence Hampton. Hard to tell.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE REST OF that day grew even more horrible.

It was decided by Abba and myself that Clarence would be removed from the cellar and cleaned up as best we could before sending his battered body back home to his mother. I left the group and went to the dining room for a minute, knowing already what had to be done. Wasn't this how my vacation in the country had begun? With a body, Ernst Nooteboom, being carried to the last stop before its final resting place. I took the cloth and saltcellar off the table and spread an old, thick blanket over it. I fetched a bucket of hot water and soap.

Dr. Peterson Burroughs had returned by then, and was in the parlor with Father, Llew, and Sheriff Bowman.

“A body?” he said, plainly stunned. “Clarence? No wonder his mother is in that condition. I had to give her thirty drops of laudanum to calm her, and another ten to get her to sleep. Well, let's have a look at this body. Bring it in.”

I was glad he was there, with his stern, practical manner and his medical experience. Perhaps his examination would reveal more about the murder, for it was obvious that Clarence Hampton had been murdered. No simple fall could have so devastated the body that Llew and Father and Sheriff Bowman now laid on the dining room table.

Anna stuck her head back downstairs, and we shouted that she was to stay up there with May and Lizzie; on no condition was she to come down or allow them down. Abba closed the curtains tightly and brought a lamp over to the table. Its light made the red poppies on the wallpaper seem to wink in and out of focus, and that was how I knew her hands were shaking.

Clarence was still dressed in Uncle's cape, which trailed on the floor as they carried him, but the Turkish cap was missing. Of course, it would have been knocked off by one of the many blows that had killed the young man. Tomorrow I would go into the cellar myself and find that cap.

Carefully, as though he might come to further harm, Llew and Officer Bowman placed the body on the table. I could see how bloody was that body. I sighed heavily, feeling pity for the young man in death, though in life I had neither cared for him nor trusted him.

We did not speak, but several times I walked around the table, thinking that the order of the wounds might reveal the merciless murderer. I knew so little. I had seen women give birth, but otherwise the body was all secrets. Perhaps, I thought, looking at Clarence, perhaps someday I should train as a nurse.

His head had several different wounds, bloody dents and welts obviously caused by the metal-headed walking cane Llew had carried in with him and dropped by the door. One blow had been so fierce it had almost severed his right ear. Another blow—the first, I suspected—had smashed his windpipe, and another his mouth and teeth. Clarence had been rendered silent before he had died. Whoever struck Clarence had meant to kill, that was certain. The killing stroke was a slice across the throat that almost severed the head.

“Most unusual,” said Dr. Burroughs, “most unusual. I have seen violent crimes, but the thoroughness of this one is shocking, don't you think?”

I nodded.

“Miss Louisa, bring your sewing scissors. And then go and sit with your mother.” He placed one of his hands over Clarence's, and I saw the difference, the gnarled, thin angles of the older hand, the smooth, strong one of the young man. And yet age had survived, while youth lay dead.

“I will stay,” I protested.

Dr. Burroughs's bristling side-whiskers moved a little higher up his face in a tight smile. “I read the Boston papers and know of your involvement in the Dorothy Wortham murder. But you will not be in this room when this body is laid bare as his creator made him,” he said. “Have some decency, young woman.”

I would have argued back that there is worse indecency in this world than a human body, but knew I would waste my time and his. I went and sat with Abba, Father, Llew, and Sylvia. Mr. Bowman stayed with Dr. Burroughs; Llew sat next to me.

Sylvia stared into the hearth. She looked exhausted, and so did Abba. Llew had withdrawn into himself, as people in shock often do. When I asked him if he wanted a glass of water, he looked at me as if I were a stranger, and then the look changed, and it seemed he was drowning before my very eyes.

An hour later, a very long hour later, Dr. Burroughs came to us carrying a basket filled with bloodied cloths: Clarence's suit, which had been cut away. It was the habit to save the clothes of the dead and give them to the living needy, but Clarence's expensive suit had been past saving, so torn and bloodied was it. Uncle's cape, which had fallen off after the first strokes of the beating, was folded and handed to Abba.

“The cape is stained but still usable,” Dr. Burroughs said. Then he sat heavily in a chair close to the fire, drying his hands on a towel.

“It is Clarence Hampton for certain, and I know he was not among the saved,” said Dr. Burroughs. “But he has been murdered before he could find redemption. The man was beaten and then his throat was cut, but of course you know that. I would say he has been dead for a day. The blood had begun to pool in the body. Gravity, you know. Rigor mortis had set in.”

I remembered how the body had angled when carried, how stiff the legs had been. A day. Clarence had died the night before. He had been sent to the potato cellar for Uncle Benjamin's secret supply of port and a basket of potatoes for Mrs. Fisher's roast. We had thought he had run off on one of his escapades, but he had been lying in the cellar all the while.

Dr. Burroughs continued, “The first blow was probably to the head, cracking the skull and causing great bleeding. Further blows were administered, including one to the windpipe, rendering him speechless. When he was fallen and already dying, his throat was cut, to finish him off. The first weapon used, before the knife, was heavy and pointed. Have you found it?” Dr. Burroughs asked.

“What of the weapon?” said Officer Bowman. His hair had been unruly before; now it stood straight up.

Llew groaned and stumbled out of the parlor. He returned carrying the walking stick he had brought back with him when he first announced the body in the cellar.

“I found it by the cellar door. On top of . . . on top of Mr. Hampton.”

Officer Bowman's beady gaze changed. “Let me clarify,” he began. “You discovered the body. You admit to having the murder weapon. There's talk in town of how you and Clarence Hampton were at loggerheads.”